This will be the week that was. There are those that are known as turning points. Listening now to Paavoharju, broken choral scenes eclipsed by tiny rises of static, and writing this, it feels that we have been here for no time, that we have been here forever. There are those barriers of language and those petty fears. Why am I so afeared? It is the small things, directions, locating offices, failing bicycle lights - they dominate my preoccupations more so than conducting myself in a foreign language or drawing up schemas that attempt to predict the next four months.
There are those, after the event, that are able to situate themselves now within themselves then. They can indicate departures on a constructed map of past times, they can pull leaves from a calendar and circle days in heavy red pen. Turning points, moments of catalyst, fulcrums upon which everything that is now, was not. How might we know these times; can we know them? There is a distinct feeling about days, as though they are entirely new, they serve to reshape pasts and futures. There are those that begin with airplane flights, or unusual journeys or dawn starts or no sleep at all or complete trepidation. We are all unknown to ourselves.
But what of such abstract nonsense? Today was one of administration, sorting telephony networks, finding WLAN in the bathroom, firing off emails, sorting my organiser out, drafting pre-emptive agendas. Then into town, past the sports hall and the bread factory, across the crossroads, past the cemetery, past another disused bread factory and in to town, all the time accompanied by Cara. Today the weather has been bright and clear, though the evenings arrive much earlier since the clocks were switched. There are those that deal with such things better than I.
Keeping up appearances, there are those that know how. Drifting back now in my head to the weekend, to a party in a high-ceilinged flat, evacuated by a British Isles bound homelander and accidentally left to a hoarde of aspiring and climaxed artists, actors and film professionals. In there, amongst the spilt wine, dropped conversations and staged games were a few glimmers of home, but also moments that might suggest that the evening, and the days after it, could feature in some kind of future history, a glare projected onto today itself from somewhere unseen.